


Out of the Ninth-month midnight

by aliform



Category: Death Note
Genre: M/M, OT3, One Shot, Wammy House, Wammy's Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2731166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliform/pseuds/aliform
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Near tries to bake L a cake for his birthday and is interrupted: or, a little ball of threats, unraveling with no one quite in control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Ninth-month midnight

Near almost spills the cupful of flour when Matt's DS clatters to the floor at the sight of Near in the kitchen surrounded by tins and spatulas and half-full bags of spices. 

Brief swearing is the apology given as Matt dives to his stomach to find the thing.

Near continues measuring, wary. Mello's bragged about this side of his lackey as if the other boy mutated once brimmed over with caffeine and sugar and adrenaline, and he did. This was Matt stripped of apathy and grinning loose with goggles shoved up to show blue eyes at a saturation level pure enough that Near angles the vanilla bottle a mite too low. Then Matt laughs, and it's breathtakingly different seeing it then hearing muffled noises from behind their door and Near hopes L loves, loves vanilla. 

"Only you would be freak enough for that dude to make him a cake at three am." The DS is shoved into a pocket.  

Near's internal body clock tells him it is no more than two minutes past 12:00 AM at the most.  

"Don't look at me like that, princess. I'm not gonna try to lick your pretty little ankles or anything." The grin is now three inches from Near's face and Matt's hip is against his, and Near scoots away at once pretending that he needs something from the fridge. _Pretty little ankles._  

"Near, I'm not dumb. You've got everything right here." Matt's fingers trace circles down the recipe, the other hand carving through air in patterns suggesting Cyrillic. "I won't touch you, get back here, I won't tell Mello, I won't tell L, I won't tell Roger, I won't tell Wammy, I just came in here to get food, you're so _paranoid_."

Then he's picking up where Near left off and cracking eggs with one hand, easy and quick.  

"Stop," Near commands. There's enough edge to his voice that Matt drops the empty halves of shell at once but the charge he is under is only stilled for a moment, not put out.  

"'Kay! Hey, you want me to make the frosting?" 

"No."  

Matt's twitchy fingers start tapping a rhythm up and down sun-licked abs, and Near shuffles back to the table before trying to remember the next step in the recipe.  

_Pretty little ankles._

The enemy now drifts to the farthest table corner from Near, a safe position, they both think, before recommencing the drumbeat against wood.  

"Hey baby hey baby hey baby hey baby I can make a killer chocolate frosting." 

Drowning out all extraneous stimuli is the next tactic. It's one that Matt instantly recognizes from Mello's close-to-sheets-of-data detailing of dealing with Near, and he retaliates with vigor. Near watches Matt's fingers drift across the tabletop as the older boy dawdles along its edge till he's next to Near again, grabbing an extra fork to pierce egg yolks with, and now it's not just a hip but the majority of Matt's thigh against Near's and Near begins not mixing but patting a bit distractedly. Action needs to be taken.  

"Leave." The end of the spoon connects with Matt's ribs.  

"OW, YOU FREAK. I WAS JUST TRYING TO HELP."   

Near can hardly explain it was only in self-protection, a self-protection that he is quickly flurrying away as he watches the spot on Matt's chest turn a nasty red and Near surrenders with a swallowed sigh. "Fine."  

He's rewarded with a victory dance that's some bizarre twist of the sprinkler and funky chicken. 

"You are _not_."

Baking powder poofs up in a little cloud and the cake is ruined.  

The tragedy is noticed by Mello yet ignored with a blink. "You were supposed to be back ten minutes ago." (This is mostly a lie. The length was inconsequential, a placeholder, and simply hinted at how long it took for Mello's patience to snap. Not that Mello lacked patience—he could be more agonizingly patient than Near when he so wanted, but he never desired patience with Matt.) 

"I'm helping Near make cake," Matt leers, and then he's driving Mello backwards into the counter and Mello squawks but doesn't protest the entrapment. All Near can see of Mello is fingers laced around Matt's neck now, but he's only cognizant of the way Matt's hips thrust forward, the strap of Matt's goggles awkwardly bunch russet chunks of hair.

"...chocolate frosting, you love chocolate frosting and we can save a little bit of L's for you," Matt is murmuring into the blond's ear, but Mello rips away with help of bony elbows and a knee in the stomach before catapulting across the room to dip one finger in cocoa powder. He licks the finger clean as he asks, "You really thought you could get away with it, huh?"  

Near's attention is only dealt out in assigned, measured portions, and currently there are none stamped with Mello's name in the queue. Mello knows this. He's about to open his mouth to speak when Matt ruins either boy's strategy and bounds to Near's other side. Mello watches in horror as Matt swipes a fingerful of batter and paints Near's cheek with the pink stuff. "Aww, look," Matt croons, "he's blushing." 

Because Near turns ashen at the action it looks more like clown paint than anything else.  

Clown paint. Mello tries to twist the teasing into something malicious at once with a black smile. "Yeah," he breathes, grabbing for a strawberry, "he's—"

Matt grabs Mello's wrist. "No." 

The strawberry hits the table with a soft plop, juice staining wood.  

"We're going to bake this together," Matt continues, and Mello's rush of anger wanes enough to sense the sarcasm in the over-seriousness of his tone. "We are going to bake L a cake that'll send him into a deep, pleasurable, diabetic coma." Then he laughs, head thrown back, and even Mello is squinting, wary. A little of the sacredness between Mello and Matt is being broken by Near being witness and Mello isn't sure whether Near's discomfort is worth it. There's a little flickering glance between the two of them that Near misses because he's wiping off batter with one stained cuff. Mello assents to Matt's question by dipping one finger in the batter himself and making wide circles on Near's other cheek. Near tries not to flinch; Mello tries not to gag.  

"Strawberry cake with chocolate frosting. And I want you to bake me and Matt a cake too." 

"Hey," Matt cuts in at once before Near can protest or leave or look even more bewildered, holding Mello's eyes for the briefest second. "Please, Mello? There's frosting! And we need to. For L." He pounds a fist onto the table before gently repeating the action on the top of Near's head. 

Mello _gets_ it.  

Or maybe paranoia is getting the better of him but he starts to plan the escape or rescue or whatever that's got him so pumped full of adrenaline he's thinking in German instead of English.  

"We're going," Mello announces. It was just a rumor that L was visiting anyway, and Matt hadn't been able to trace anything solid. And there was something very solid in the way most of Matt's clothes smelled like cigarettes and all Mello can remember of L's scent is something vague and fragmented, like coffee and cheap deodorant or maybe that's Roger, and that settles the matter. "He can bake his own cake. We'll do something better."  

Matt winks goodbye at Near as he's drug from the room.  

Near dumps the batter down a garbage disposal, puts everything away neatly, swipes up random spatters, and leaves. 

That night Mello crawls into Matt's bed once he's passed out and tangles himself around him.  

Mello is is going to become L, he is going to replace him. Mello cannot become Matt, and he curls one hand loose around Matt's throat to let the pulse he feels lull him to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking, from Leaves of Grass, 1860 edition, in a portion about memory. 
> 
> Growing up, something I loved observing was how boys interact with one another in the absence of girls. Especially in the ages of 9-11 when girls become hypercognizant of themselves, of other girls, during prepubescence and then into puberty, boys, with their slow hormonal start date and privilege, were seemingly unfettered from an emotional deluge that made their interactions less measured, less polite, with a quickness and understanding between them that was like watching a little pack of wolves hunt together. This almost feral quality was something I was jealous of, and this fic is a sort of homage to that. & that's mostly likely the most obscure element from my past to ever influence my fic. 
> 
> This was written six years ago.


End file.
